


all the way to the edge of desire

by eclipsed (lucitae)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Time Skip, please don't scrutinize logistics too much we are just here to have fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26007898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitae/pseuds/eclipsed
Summary: Ever since Miya Osamu saidI ain't letting you go home on an empty stomachand took the effort to make him anumeboshi ochazuke, Sakusa Kiyoomi had dropped the Miya and called him Osamu. But that was a long time ago.Now, Osamu is still all gentle smiles and an enthusiastic voice welcoming individuals into his humble abode. He doles out food and care the way he does smiles. Long lost that indifference and air of a predator that stalked the court alongside his brother — waiting for a chance to pounce.Under Kiyoomi's hands he turns pliant. Under Kiyoomi's finger nails he sings a song only meant for Kiyoomi's ears. Under Kiyoomi, Osamu lets himself disintegrate, trusting that he'll be pieced back together again.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 172
Collections: 🐶🍙 omigiri fanfic collection





	all the way to the edge of desire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yakus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakus/gifts).



> for omigiri nation. with special thanks to iris for inspiring and holding my hand ❤
> 
> iris & i did a collab! check out her art [here](https://twitter.com/kuehjpg/status/1296489371760316417?s=20)!
> 
> heavily inspired by [aya's tweet](https://twitter.com/plumsk1es/status/1295953932372467714?s=21) and [arae's tweet](https://twitter.com/oyakudon/status/1295972110779609089?s=21). also by junhui (svt) wanting to see yanan's (ptg) wild side on cyzj. ( by wild i mean feral and by feral i mean... well you'll see )
> 
> pls don't expect quality. this is 2am brainrot hours.

Ever since Miya Osamu said _I ain't letting you go home on an empty stomach_ and took the effort to make him an _umeboshi ochazuke_ , Sakusa Kiyoomi had dropped the Miya and called him Osamu. But that was a long time ago.

Now, Osamu is still all gentle smiles and an enthusiastic voice welcoming individuals into his humble abode. He doles out food and care the way he does smiles. Long lost that indifference and air of a predator that stalked the court alongside his brother — waiting for a chance to pounce.

Under Kiyoomi's hands he turns pliant. Under Kiyoomi's finger nails he sings a song only meant for Kiyoomi's ears. Under Kiyoomi, Osamu lets himself disintegrate, trusting that he'll be pieced back together again.

( It starts with a warm towel, followed by a brush of lips against temples. An arm around the waist that circles moles dotting the line of his waist, hand brought close to chest, and a warmth that stays long after the sun has risen. )

But Kiyoomi sometimes catches glimpses of that feral edge. Something more primal that lurks behind his eyes when Kiyoomi corners him against the wall. Words that are less pleasant and more provocative as if trying to seek purchase underneath Kiyoomi's skin. Kiyoomi wishes to unearth it.

It comes down to a single, simple desire: to know Miya Osamu in all his multitudes.

So Sakusa Kiyoomi arrives at Onigiri Miya just as the last patron departs. He's still in the National Team jersey underneath his jacket, mask still neatly on his face, as he ducks past the _noren_ so that neither his hair nor hands touch it.

Osamu is about to greet him with a warm welcome when Kiyoomi unzips and takes off his jacket, revealing the bold white MIYA against bright red. The 11 emblazoned on both sides, the very same number Osamu used to carry up until his final year of high school.

Kiyoomi's expression is masked. Kiyoomi's lips curl at the sight of skin flushing red. Curve even more when Osamu closes the distance. There is no tenderness here. His fist creasing his brother's jersey. Nothing precious. Kiyoomi almost winces at the way his back slams against the wall. No lump of rice being formed into a triangle with its filling tucked into its center. Osamu rips off the mask from Kiyoomi's face. No hands that remember to sanitize before touching Kiyoomi. There's nothing reflected back in Osamu's eyes except a leering Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi leans in close. The mask dangles from one of his ears, lips ghosting against the shell of Osamu's as he asks: "What would your jersey number be if you had stayed, _Miya_?"

"Don't call me that," Osamu spits. Pressure increases between Osamu's fist and Kiyoomi's sternum, between Kiyoomi's back and the wall.

Kiyoomi laughs, breathless. He wants Osamu's name to be wrenched out from him, dug out of him with claws and teeth. He's close. He sees the way Osamu's chest rises and falls, the dilation of pupils. Kiyoomi does what he's always done: slot a knee between thighs. This time he nudges Osamu's crotch to assess for a reaction.

"As if you could stop me, Miya." Kiyoomi drags Osamu's family name against his tongue and desecrates it at once.

He's done well these past few days. Ended serves meant to be service aces, watched their faces turn red as they sting his arms, dug on par to his cousin's records. The hum of it is still in his veins, alive, seeking for release.

A yelp would have slipped past his lips if he wasn't Sakusa Kiyoomi. But he is, so his mouth clamp shuts and he tries his best to contort his face into that of indifference when his boyfriend throws him over the shoulder like a sack of rice.

He really should be used to it by now. Spent a majority of his time surrounded by individuals with arm muscles on par with Osamu's. Watched Iwaizumi-san bury the national team in arm wrestle matches. Observed Wakatoshi-kun's efficient receives when they paired off for warm up.Even caught himself staring at Aran-kun's spikes that terrorized other nations.

But Kiyoomi watches the flex of tendons, marveling at how hard Osamu's fingers grip him, moments before his back hits the bed upstairs.

A newly minted record breaking speed. The curl in Kiyoomi's abdomen tightens and it probably reflects on his face too.

The arm that had carried him is planted close to the side of his face, the other by his waist, trapping Kiyoomi.

"Well, weren't you silent the way up," Osamu says as Kiyoomi's heart pounds in his throat. Again, it's that glance. One Kiyoomi encountered years ago, across the net as they sized each other up. Or didn't. Kiyoomi looked forward to completion; Osamu thought about lunch. But at the apex of their jump, at the top of the net, was the sole determination to slam the ball on the other side of the court.

Those same fingers lift the jersey at the hem and tug it off Kiyoomi.

"What makes you think I'll stay that way," Kiyoomi retorts. His voice as flat as he can make it. But they've known each other for a while now. Osamu will pick up any traces Kiyoomi accidentally leaves behind.

Osamu's lips twist as he settles his weight on his knees on both sides of Kiyoomi, the glint in his eye sharpens as he says: "this." The red jersey is bunched up like a rag and shoved into Kiyoomi's mouth.

( Gentle fingers against Kiyoomi's chin, thumb tracing his lower lip until he parts. A stare full of intent as if to read the lines that should not be crossed. Kiyoomi's mouth falls open in permission. )

Kiyoomi has washed it five times with Osamu's brand of detergent and it still doesn't smell enough like Osamu. But before he can frown there's a thumb between his eyebrows, smoothing it out. It's closer to what Kiyoomi is used to so when it leaves, habit demands Kiyoomi to chase before he realizes the ball is in Osamu's court. He is the one who put it there and will have to wait eight long seconds before he can receive.

Osamu crosses his arms on purpose before he pries his shirt off him. Allows it to be pinched between his index and his thumb as he holds Kiyoomi's gaze before he drops it. It pools onto the floor beside the bed.

One would think that Kiyoomi would be desensitized at this point: after continuous exposure to locker rooms and a relationship just shy of a year. But there's a sort of dizziness that accompanies the way Osamu's gaze rakes over Kiyoomi's body. A physiological reaction to seeing the exposed skin of a man you've come to know intimately.

It's heightened and furthered by the kisses interspersed with nips along Kiyoomi's bare skin. Relief that quickly floods his system as he lifts his hips to help Osamu's rid him of his shorts and boxers. The cool air causes him to hiss under his breath.

A chuckle falls from Osamu's lips as he skips past Kiyoomi's cock.

"Isn't this what you wanted Kiyoomi," Osamu teases after leaving a mark on Kiyoomi’s inner thigh. Osamu tends to leave it in places that can be easily hidden. The apex of his heart, the base of his spine, the mole on his thigh. Whereas Kiyoomi has a habit of forcing Osamu to cover them up with Salonpas — visible, angry — eager to be rebranded before they fade.

( And Osamu lets him. Osamu always lets him. )

Lube is poured generously into Osamu's hand. He makes a show out of it: allowing the liquid to refract the light of his room. When he's satisfied with the expression on Kiyoomi's face, he throws one of Kiyoomi's legs over his shoulders before he traces the rim. Slow, aggravating circles as Osamu kisses along his scatter of moles. Lips getting closer and closer to his cock that aches.

Kiyoomi could relieve himself. Could wrap a dry hand around his own cock and collect pre-cum with his thumb as Osamu fucks him open with his fingers. But Kiyoomi doesn't want that. Not today.

His jaw clenches harder around the jersey. It tightens when Osamu pushes his first finger in.

"Too bad I can't listen to your voice today," Osamu laments. The mirth in his eyes say otherwise. A second finger. Tongue swirl around Kiyoomi's nipple. Osamu consistently neglecting Kiyoomi's cock in favor of other places. The sound Kiyoomi makes gets muffled, swallowed back, when Osamu nudges his prostate.

A third.

Kiyoomi can barely imagine what he looks like. Mind in disarray. Vague recollection of Osamu under him that slips from him grasp when fingers, again, hit that spot of his. His toes curl.

Osamu collects the pre-cum that has made most of its way down his shaft with a thumb, swiping it upwards before it can ruin the sheets. Kiyoomi's hips lift off the bed a little when Osamu's hand pulls off and away from his cock, a whine escaping his throat.

Osamu retracts his fingers. Kiyoomi is about to shoot him a glare when he realizes the desperation in movements. Fingers coated in fluids attempting to get a zipper down to free his own cock. Condom package torn open with teeth. Eyes lidded, the sense of a hunter on a prowl returns. This time Kiyoomi throws his arms around Osamu when Osamu leans in to adjust himself.

Same leg over shoulder. Except this time, fingers grip flesh tightly. Except this time, the crown of Osamu's cock teases Kiyoomi. Except this time, Osamu has no patience for a long game. Just hunger. The same desire that inflicts Kiyoomi as he rakes his nails along Osamu's shoulder blades. Too perfectly shaped for any lasting damage but Kiyoomi tries anyway.

Osamu's hand comes up to press against Kiyoomi's face when he bottoms out. It seeps warmth as tenderness as the thumb brushes away the small mixture of saliva and tears. A short period of adjustment. Then, he starts with a steady pace until it turns more frantic. Osamu's hand returns to Kiyoomi's cock, pumping it to a disjointed pace as erratic as his hips.

Osamu leans forward, tugging the jersey free from Kiyoomi with his teeth, turns his head and spits it aside.

The once staunched sounds flow freely. Intermingled with lovers' names held in each other's mouths. Kiyoomi forces Osamu down by the neck, capturing his lips, reversing predator status.

In the end, it doesn't really matter.

That act and one final flick of the wrist causes Kiyoomi to tip over the edge, his mess trapped between both their bodies. And his descent causes Osamu to topple.

It takes Osamu a moment before he pulls out. Tying it off and disposing the used condom in the bin. Languid body stalking off to the bathroom for clean up. The unspoken arrangement since their first time unfolds.

Until Kiyoomi deems it good enough, missing the warmth beside him, and curls a hand around Osamu's wrist and tugs him into bed.

Osamu adjusts, curling his body around Kiyoomi, studying his face.

"Oh, Kiyoomi," Osamu's voice is soft, laden with the sort of fondness Kiyoomi could have sworn he was allergic to in the past. ( The past is so seemingly distant now. ) "Did you want to wear my family name on your back?"

"No," he bites. But because Kiyoomi is still drunk on Osamu, there's no real edge to it. And because the haze has yet to face, Kiyoomi confesses: "I want you to be mine."

Osamu laughs, head making an indent into the pillow, body causing Kiyoomi to shake too as Osamu pieces it together. Instead of being annoyed, Kiyoomi just wants to use it as a pretense to kiss it out of Osamu.

"Next time," Osamu says, turning back to face Kiyoomi, fingers outlining the joint in his shoulder, "I'll wear your uniform. And then I'll ride you." The last part comes out a little lower, inciting another curl in Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi huddles closer. "You're mine. So. I'm yours."

It's disgustingly sappy and thankfully Kiyoomi's phone buzzes to hide Kiyoomi's expression from Osamu. It takes two blind grabs before Kiyoomi successfully acquires his phone.

 **[ Miya ]** i really didn't need confirmation that you were fucking my brother omi-kun

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, annoyed. Quickly types back: _don't worry. i'll return it after i wash it_.

The phone vibrates two seconds later:

 **[ Miya ]** I don't want the jersey you fucked my brother in back

 **[ Miya ]** GROSS OMI-KUN

 **[ Miya ]** BURN IT

Kiyoomi groans, far too comfortable where his head is nestled against Osamu's well proportioned arms to be bothered to reply.

Osamu's other hand comes into view, fingers against the top of Kiyoomi's phone as he asks: "may I?"

Kiyoomi allows Osamu to take it from him.

Osamu switches to the camera, holds the phone high, takes a quick snap before sending it off to his brother. Then promptly shuts the phone off before he settles his arm around Kiyoomi again.

"That'll show him," Osamu mumbles sleepily into Kiyoomi's curls. "Now he'll have to set fire to the whole chat too." And there it is again, the flash of canines Kiyoomi mistakenly assumed to be blunted as sharp as ever..

**Author's Note:**

> please consider omigiri agenda thank you.


End file.
